


Nice to have the kids around

by toomuchplor



Series: Eamespreg [7]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Post Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 13:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most mothers know when they're done having babies, but then most mothers aren't ex-gamblers.  (Or: Eames goes all-in.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice to have the kids around

**Author's Note:**

> Dan Mangan title, because apparently that's what I do now for this series. Thanks to xen for audiencing. This is actually the first coda I wrote to Eamespreg but just finally put an ending on it today. :)

Eames lunges after the slipping bulk of fleecy baby bottom, heart pounding, coming awake too late to stop the motion, oh shit — but then he blinks and the sensation resolves into logic. Eames tips onto his back to blink up at Arthur as Arthur scoops Otis out of the bed. Arthur's dressed for sleeping already, t-shirt and plaid pyjama bottoms and damp curling post-shower hair. "Hi," he says, quirking his mouth. "Thought I'd clear a space, if you didn't mind."

Eames isn't quite awake enough to form an answer, which is as well when Arthur's out of the room before Eames can do much more than grunt sleepily in his direction. Eames turns his head to the side and sees that Otis was the last to go; when he'd dropped off, Eames was bookended with Otis on one side and Bert on the other, Luke flopped crossways over his feet and taking up far more of the king-size mattress than was probable for a three-year-old boy.

But emptied of sleeping children, the bed seems vast indeed. Eames clamps down on a half-formed impulse to go and retrieve George from his cot just to feel cozy again. Their third son will soon be old enough to clamber his own way into bed with them, if he takes after his older brothers. No point encouraging the transition. So Eames stretches fitfully, takes a moment to starfish out into the unaccustomed luxury of space. This used to be the only way he could sleep, he vaguely recalls; it seems impossible.

Arthur comes padding back in, moving more slowly now that he's dispatched the last of the children to their proper beds. Eames is probably too fond of the sight of Arthur with a boy slung over his flat strong chest; Arthur without a child on him somewhere seems nearly as lonely a prospect as being the sole occupant of this bed.

The latter situation, at least, is swiftly remedied. Arthur peels back the duvet that was rumpled around Luke and Bert's kicking feet, flops down onto the bed with a groan, and doesn't resist when Eames burrows close to him with a sigh of relief. He does, however, wriggle a bit before extracting a Spider-Man sock from under his ribs. "Whose is this?" he asks, squinting.

"Going off the size," says Eames, "got to be Luke's, I imagine."

"No," says Arthur, "Luke's feet aren't that big yet."

"Hmm," says Eames, amused. "Our little warrior? He's exactly that big, darling. He'll be into Bert's cast-offs in a minute, his feet are like bloody pontoons."

"How did we make a giant, again?" Arthur grumbles, balling up the sock and tossing it off the bed, vaguely in the direction of the overflowing laundry hamper. "We don't have a tall gene between us."

It's a question they've tossed back and forth almost daily since the midwife attending the home birth arched an eyebrow at the scale read-out and said, "Ten — no — _eleven_ pounds. My goodness." Arthur at least doesn't bother trying to accuse Eames of secret infidelity; no point, with Luke's dark hair, his complexion, and his sodding devilish brown eyes that force Eames to forgive him any number of transgressions. (Not limited to the stunning pain he'd inflicted with his oversized head making its entrance in the first place.)

"Mm," Eames says, in lieu of the usual speculation about his tall uncle or Arthur's viking ancestry. He slings an arm round Arthur and tugs him closer, because he'll never get back to sleep unless he's properly overheated and crowded.

"I suppose we could move him into Bert's room, though," Arthur says. "I'd rather that than try to find a new house. Moving and — real estate agents. Ugh."

"He's grand as he is," Eames says, letting his eyes close now, getting comfortable. "You've said it yourself, putting those two into a room together is only asking for structural damage to the second storey."

"Yeah, but," says Arthur, scratching his chin against Eames' collarbone absently, "a girl should have her own room. That's only fair."

Eames is too tired for his heart to thump, but thump it does: a low heavy soft thump, a drowsy half-arsed spurt of adrenalin.

"Are you still awake?" asks Arthur suspiciously, not privy to Eames’ inner workings.

Eames humphs an affirmative. He finds himself caught between the pull of this curious conversation and the deeper long-standing exhaustion that comes of raising four boys aged four and under.

"Well, then," says Arthur, "I'm trying to tell you that you've talked me into it. Not that I deserve any kind of award for agreeing to carry one child after your tally, but in my defence at least this one is planned. Or — it would be."

"One Last Baby," Eames says, because the concept has been a hotly contested one since the day Otis rolled front to back and Eames realized with terror that his tiny sweet little man was growing up, too, heartlessly and relentlessly as his brothers before him. "Arthur, really?" Eames pushes away so he can get up on one elbow and goggle at Arthur properly, evaluate his seriousness. It's a bit of a wasted effort; Arthur is nearly always serious, at least when he's not pinned by two small cowboys and hamming up his role as their vigilante prisoner.

"One Last Baby Girl," Arthur amends, as he usually does. "I mean, it's got to be a girl. Statistically."

"Statistically I should never have gotten pregnant once," Eames reminds him, "never mind three more times after that." He doesn't bother rattling off the other reproductive odds they've beaten between them, managing conception in defiance of breastfeeding hormones (Luke), birth control pills (George), and an uncharacteristically drunken encounter which many teenagers wouldn’t even consider real sex (Otis). Their gametes are determined to collide, it seems, no matter what barriers Eames and Arthur throw between them.

"Well," says Arthur, folding his hands behind his head and dimpling slyly up at Eames, "even if we get a boy, at least we'll know what we're doing at this point." His smile broadens in answer to the grin spreading over Eames' face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," says Eames, feeling warm all over in an entirely different way, "god, yes, Arthur, let me — are you sure?" He can't help checking this one last time, because Arthur's never been better than lukewarm on the idea of carrying a baby himself, as enthusiastic as he usually is about Eames in the same state.

"Yeah," says Arthur, pulling a hand free and curving it close round the back of Eames' neck, urging him down for a kiss. "Yeah, Eames, I'm sure."

They have to rid the bed of another sock (Otis’ size, Lightning McQueen), a teddy bear (George’s), and a plastic breastplate (from Luke's Hercules costume) before they really get going, but finally they're both stripped to the skin and firmly into adults-only territory, Eames bearing Arthur down into the mattress and sucking a bruise into his pectoral muscle, thinking dizzily of how Arthur's body will change, round out, soften and curl around a baby, the One Last Baby (Girl) that Eames knows will finally make them feel like a completed family unit.

"I didn't lock the door," Arthur says, pulling at Eames' hair, struggling to get out from under Eames.

"Careless of you," Eames says, not giving way.

"Eames," says Arthur, urgently, not amused.

"Go on, they're all out for the duration," Eames says, unwilling to lose his place and have to get Arthur back where he wants him. Once Arthur's out of bed, he never fails to think of three other things that need doing. As far as Eames is concerned, _Arthur_ is the only thing that needs doing at this exact moment.

"Right," says Arthur, squirming, red-cheeked, hard, "okay, you're explaining to Luke why Mummy is making Daddy cry like that when he wanders in here."

"Making you cry?" Eames repeats, impressed with Arthur's ambition, his vision. "Good lord, to think I once urged you to dream a little bigger." He pins Arthur’s wrists together on the pillow above his head, hovers for a moment as he gazes down at Arthur. He sees Arthur all the time, but it’s rare Eames has the chance to look at him properly.

“Everything’s going to change,” says Arthur, and his voice is difficult to read, some mixture of trepidation and excitement and disbelief.

“Really?” says Eames, kissing Arthur’s his doubting frown, his nose, his chin. He pulls back to look at Arthur again and finds Arthur starting to smile, just a bit.

“Well,” says Arthur, “for starters, we’re gonna need a bigger bed.”


End file.
